“Usually many small ones.”
Afterward, a young captain approached.
“My parents think I work in supply because I once told them I coordinate resources.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“They don’t really understand what I do.”
“Do you want them to?”
He hesitated.
“I think so.”
“Then tell them the parts you can.”
It was simple advice.
It had taken me twenty years to understand it.
That Christmas, our family gathered at Dad’s house.
The old display case was gone from the living room.
In its place hung photographs.
Ethan and Rachel on their wedding day.
Madison finishing her graduate degree.
Mom kneeling beside her garden with dirt across one cheek.
My parents on their thirtieth anniversary.
One picture of me in uniform.
One of me at twelve holding a fishing pole upside down.
And the gala photograph.
No hierarchy.
No shrine.
Just a family.
After dinner, Dad handed me a small package.
